


I'd buy a big house where we both could live

by lucifucker



Category: Wolverine (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Big Gay Love Story, Building A Home, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infidelity, Kidnapping, M/M, Semi-Explicit, Sexual Content, but it gets better, but only very very lightly i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 02:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17799386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: "Less paperwork when you pay double in cash, huh?”Logan stops, turns around, gives Scott that look, that one that means tell me to stop, tell me it’s too much, that same desperate, self-hating look he’s been giving Scott at every turn since their first kiss.





	I'd buy a big house where we both could live

Logan moves them around, hopping from town to town and state to state for four years. 

 

Oddly, Scott doesn’t mind. They stay in cheap motels and rented houses. Logan finds whatever construction and lumber work he can. Scott substitute teaches. Every place in America, as it turns out, needs subs. Some things never change, teachers always get sick. They often end up leaving and getting home at different times, sometimes it doesn’t quite line up. 

 

But they find time. Scott leaves lunches in the fridge for Logan, because otherwise he’ll just shove an apple and a roll of crackers into his pockets and call it a meal. Logan brings home flowers and leaves them in beer bottles next to their bed, remembers to leave his boots by the door because Scott hates it when he tracks mud through wherever it is they’re living. They make it work. 

 

Every place they stop, something blows up. Logan gets in a fight at a bar and they have to leave in the night. Logan puts his hand in Scott’s back pocket in the grocery store and the locals don’t take kindly to it. Logan lets his  _ fucking claws out _ in public, whenever and wherever he feels it’s necessary, or even just helpful. He flaunts their oddity, their difference. In every town, at every opportunity, Logan tests the people around them, trying their patience, poking and prodding wherever he deems fit to ascertain that they’re  _ safe _ .

 

Logan’s priority, Scott has come to realize over the years, is always his safety above all else. It’s a powerful thing to have, the protection of the Wolverine. 

 

It’s also a powerful thing to protect him. 

 

\--

 

When they finally find a place, it’s a small town in Canada, not far from a city but far enough to weed out the undesirables Logan’s been keeping a sharp eye out for since they left Westchester. There’s a supermarket, and a library, and two schools, enough to keep Scott busy for most of the year, and enough woods for Logan to get steady work throwing logs around and pretending he needs to use a chainsaw to cut trees down. Logan asks in his own way, back pressed against Scott’s chest, facing the door like he always does. 

 

“That old house on Millcrest is goin’ up.” He says it casually, but Scott can feel his breathing shift, his muscles stiffen incrementally. Steeling himself. “Pretty cheap.” Scott presses his nose against the back of Logan’s neck. 

 

“I like that place.” It’s a dump. The roof’s falling in, and all the windows are boarded up. It’s painted some horrific yellow color that Scott only knows about because of how often Logan complains about it. 

 

It’s perfect. 

 

“Yeah?” Logan turns in Scott’s arms, looks up at him with searching eyes, and Scott kisses him. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

The next evening, Scott comes back and Logan’s packing their stuff up. There’s a set of keys he’s never seen before and a manilla envelope on the bed. 

 

“Less paperwork when you pay double in cash, huh?” Logan stops, turns around, gives Scott that  _ look _ , that one that means  _ tell me to stop, tell me it’s too much _ , that same desperate, self-hating look he’s been giving Scott at every turn since their first kiss, and Scott crosses to the bed, and pushes him down onto it, kissing him soundly with his hands framing Logan’s scarred, scratchy face. 

 

When he draws back, Logan’s breathing hard, chest heaving and eyes wide, and Scott grins. 

 

“We’re gonna need a lot of plaster. Do you even know how to fix a roof?” Logan grins, and flips them over, pinning Scott to the mattress. 

 

“I know how to do everything, sugar.” He murmurs into Scott’s mouth. 

 

They move their stuff that night, and say goodbye to the sleazy motel in favor of rickety foundations and a hole in the floor of their living room, but Scott lies down with Logan’s head against his chest and doesn’t care, even for a moment. 

 

\--

 

The house has beautiful foundations. It’s nothing like the mansion. Low ceilings and doorways, just two bathrooms, three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and a basement. Scott thinks it’ll be more than enough. It’s just him and Logan (for now, anyway). 

 

They start with the roof, because it rains the second night after they’ve been sweeping and clearing away cobwebs all day and Logan doesn’t like getting wet, so their third day as homeowners is spent crouched on the rickety slates, hammering boards and then tiles into place in companionable silence. 

 

Logan’s never liked to talk when he worked, always sinks in with a kind of pure, focused depth that doesn’t allow for much else. Scott likes to watch him, when he’s like this, all traces of snark and grouch gone, completely absorbed into his task. It’s mesmerizing. 

 

They finish the roof in two days, and move on to the floors. When that’s done, it’s time for the plumbing. 

 

“Can’t do that myself.” Logan growls, not without bitterness, and shakes his head. “Gonna have to call a professional.” 

 

A ‘professional’, as it turns out, is Remy, who shows up at the front door the next day holding a toolbox and a copy of  _ Plumbing For Dummies _ that looks too new not to have been stolen. The cajun casts a crooked grin at Scott and pulls him into a tight one-armed hug before rushing inside to tackle Logan unceremoniously to the ground, laughing like a madman while a sleep-addled Wolverine tries unsuccessfully to escape his iron embrace. 

 

_ “Mon petit carcajou!” _ Remy coos, _ “Tu m'as tellement manqué!” _

 

“ _ Se taire.” _ Logan growls, but he wraps his arms around Remy’s waist, and pulls him close, inhales the scent of his worn trench coat, and there’s something soft in his face when he looks up at Scott. 

 

Remy practically destroys the house taking out pieces of the plumbing with his powers amid Logan’s shouts of “Time and place, TIME AND PLACE” but by the end of the day, all the old stuff is out, and the house is primed and ready for the new stuff to be put in. When Scott asks where the new stuff is coming from, Remy grins. 

 

“You don’t wanna know that,  _ cher _ .” He purrs, and pats Scott’s cheek. “You got delicate sensibilities,  _ oui _ ?”

 

“Stolen.” Logan mutters as he sinks down next to them on the rickety front porch, three beers balanced between his fingers. “Sorry, sugar.” Scott takes the proffered bottle and leans into Logan’s side a little, seeping his warmth in the cool evening air. 

 

“I’m gonna have to tell our children that our house is fitted with pilfered pipes.” He says, almost mournfully, into his beer, and feels Logan’s body shake with laughter. 

 

“Baby, you’re gonna have to tell our children one of their papas is a hundred-thirty year old loser with knives in his hands.” He nudges Scott’s temple with his nose. “I think the pipes’ll be fine.” 

 

“Ack,  _ arrêtez _ , your love disgusts me.” Remy knocks back half his beer and lies down, the wooden floorboards of the porch creaking beneath him. 

 

“ _ Jamais _ .” Logan growls, and curls a possessive arm around Scott’s waist. 

 

The sun’s setting. The sky is beautiful. 

 

Scott thinks, we could have a life here. 

 

\--

Remy takes up residence in the smaller of the two downstairs bedrooms while he finishes the plumbing and never leaves. The three of them continue to work on the house together for three months, living in its bones, cooking on a camp stove, and using the one tiny, filthy toilet. 

 

It’s some of the best months Scott can remember having since they lost Jean and he savors it. 

 

When it comes time to paint, Scott and Remy are at a loss, neither of them ever having picked up a brush, before. But Logan just smiles, and pulls his battered cell phone out of his pocket, and walks out the back door. 

 

Four hours later Captain Fucking America knocks on Scott’s front door with an armful of rollers and brushes, and the Winter Soldier, trailing behind him, carrying three boxes that Scott can only assume are filled with very, very heavy cans of paint as though they’re packing peanuts.    
  


Steve and Logan paint the house in three days, which Scott, Remy, and Bucky spend lazing about on the front porch in the summer sun, Scott and Bucky ogling their respective boyfriends while Remy drawls about Louisiana in summer and why Canada’s got nothing on the heat down south. 

 

“You ever been to Brooklyn, pal?” Bucky asks, and Remy nods. 

 

“ _ Oui, cher _ , it’s the only place in the north as hot as Orleans in July.” Bucky nods, and they clink beers, and Scott keeps watching Logan’s butt with rapt attention. 

 

\--

 

When all’s said and done, it takes five months to restore the house, but when they’re finished, it’s gorgeous. The outside is still that same awful yellow color, paint peeling in places and mismatched in others. The inside is all spackle-textured walls and hardwood floors, wooden countertops and hand-sanded doors. They go into town and pile furniture into the back of Logan’s truck, buy a king-size mattress for themselves and a twin for Remy. No frames, because Remy doesn’t need anything chargeable close by when he has nightmares, and the fact is if Logan sits down too hard on a steel bedframe it’ll snap. 

 

So they put the beds on the floor, build the rooms around that, buy low-sitting dressers and put a desk in the corner of the master for Scott, a crafting table in Remy’s room. Logan starts to drag his heavybag toward the basement, but Scott stops him, with a hand on his elbow, and steers him toward the back porch instead. He doesn’t have to hide. 

 

They find a dining table at an antique shop in the city and buy it even though it’s preposterously overpriced, and it looks perfect when the sunlight drifts in through the open windows. Remy puts thin purple curtains up, and Logan complains but doesn’t take them down. They put in a fridge, a stove, buy plates and cups to fill the kitchen cabinets. 

 

It’s a home. 

 

\--

 

It takes approximately five days of them actually living in the finished house for something bad to happen. 

 

Victor Creed catches Scott unawares on his way home from the school on a Wednesday afternoon and has him out like a light before he can reach for his visor. 

 

He’s awoken by the sound of a door slamming, and the dull thud of a body falling to the ground. He jerks his head up, but keeps his eyes shut, keenly aware that the familiar weight of his glasses is gone. 

 

“Good idea, there, shades.” A low voice laced with gravel intones, and Scott feels a short, sharp claw dig into his cheek. “Wouldn’t wanna blast Jimmy here into smithereens in his sleep.” 

 

Scott doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, hardly even  _ breathes _ , stays as still and quiet as he can because he knows Victor Creed, knows what kind of crazy he’s dealing with. Eventually, the claw moves away. 

 

“I’ll be back when he wakes up to rip your guts out. Tried to tell him ‘bout that part of the plan and he threw a hissy fit, so,” He claps his hands. “Had to move the timetable back a bit. Gotta make sure he doesn’t miss anything.” He walks away, pausing to deliver what sounds like a kick to Logan’s middle. “Don’t go wanderin’ off!” Scott hears the creak of stairs, and then the click of a door, a lock being set. 

 

“Lo?” He murmurs, and gets no response. His hands are tied with ropes, he ascertains, shifting his fingers around and exploring what he can feel of the knots around his wrists. They’re sloppy, made by Creed’s unskilled touch, and he thanks every god that can hear him for giving him what Logan calls ‘daddy long leg fingers’ as he manages to twist his hands free. 

 

The floor is hard and cold beneath his hands and knees as he maneuvers himself down onto it, but he’s learned the hard way from too many lost or stolen pairs of glasses not to try to move around a space blind on his feet. He moves across the ground, toward where the breathing is coming from, where the smell of cigars and sweat gets stronger, relying on his other senses with relative ease. 

 

This is far from the first time Scott’s been left blind in the dark. 

 

His fingers brush against thick, grimy hair, and he sinks them into it, sliding his hands down to frame Logan’s familiar face between them. Blind or not, Scott knows the texture of Logan’s beard, the line of his nose, the shape of his jaw and the warmth that radiates off his skin. He leans down, and presses their foreheads together, inhaling deeply the smell of Logan’s greasy hair and not minding for a moment. 

 

“Lo.” He whispers, again, stroking his thumb over the other man’s cheek. “Logan, wake up.” He shifts around, picking Logan’s head up and depositing it in his lap, feeling his way down until he gets one of his hands between his own. His fingers rub against the divots between Logan’s knuckles, the exit points for his claws. “Sweetie, you’ve gotta wake up, I can’t get us out of here blind.” 

 

Logan doesn’t answer beyond the soft snuffling sound he makes in his sleep, and Scott clenches his jaw, kisses his partner’s temple. There’s no telling when their captor will come back, and no way to figure out what he’s given or done to Logan to knock him out. He only knows it’s Victor because he knows  _ Victor _ , knows what those claws feel like pressed against his cheek, knows the smell of dirt and blood that hit him before the chloroform did. Knows that  _ voice _ . This is a trip down memory lane for Scott. 

 

“Alright, I guess I have to.” He lowers Logan’s head back down as tenderly as he can, and crawls away until he finds a wall, sliding up until he’s standing with his side pressed up against it. Walking forward, he counts his steps, until he hits a second wall, and follows that, measuring the dimensions of the room as best he can. Fifteen by fifteen, square, stairs on one wall leading up to a locked door. Scott considers his options. 

 

There’s no fresh air in the room which means they must be in a basement. The darkness in front of his eyelids remains static the entire time he moves around, which means there are no windows, no light interference. He could open his eyes, look up, and hope for the best, but he hasn’t got a healing factor to protect himself from chunks of concrete, and no way of knowing where they’ll fall. He could blast the door open, but there’s no telling what’s on the other side, and no way to prepare himself for it in the event that, for instance, a hostile Victor Creed’s waiting at the top of the stairs. 

 

He makes his way back to Logan’s prone form on the ground, lays his head against the older mutant’s chest and breathes in the soft fabric of his flannel. 

 

“Okay, honey.” He murmurs, wrapping his fingers tightly around Logan’s belt, and steeling himself for the uncomfortable reality of dragging three hundred pounds of dead weight Wolverine. “We’re gonna have to improvise a little.” 

 

\--

 

The latch on the door at the top of the stairs opens, and Scott crouches over Logan beneath them, his body coiled like a spring. Victor makes his way down the steps, taking them slowly, languidly, and Scott waits, poised in what he can only hope is semi-darkness. Twelve steps, he had counted very carefully, and he sat beneath the eighth. 

 

_ Five _ . 

 

He presses his fingertips to the step above him. 

 

_ Six _ . 

 

He lets out a slow, silent exhale. 

 

_ Seven _ . 

 

He looks up. 

 

_ Eight _ .

 

Scott opens his eyes and sees red. 

 

His beam hits Victor from beneath, sending him arching up into the low-hanging ceiling of the basement. Scott can see. Scott can see his body as it flies through the air, and his eyes follow Victor’s path all the way to the ground, and stay there, every fibre of his body concentrating on keeping his gaze steady, on not looking anywhere but the spot on Creed’s chest the beam hits. Scott can only continue to stand there, praying with every fibre of his being that the ruckus can wake Logan up, can make  _ something _ happen. The concrete begins to crack, shuddering and compressing with the sheer pressure of the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object. 

 

Except, Victor Creed is not the immovable object, and Scott Summers is not the unstoppable force.

 

Wolverine is both. 

 

The roar that tears out of him shakes Scott to his very core, makes him falter, blink for just a moment, but it’s okay. It’s okay because as soon as Scott’s eyes close, he hears Logans claws unsheath, hears them embed in flesh and concrete, hears Creed’s strangled yell and the twist of metal against bone. There’s the sound of some scuffling, a few grunts on Creed’s part, but it’s hopeless. He never stood a chance against Logan. 

 

Scott scrambles forward, until his hands touch warm skin, until he can find Logan’s fist pressed against Creed’s chest, slide his fingers into Logan’s hair, press his nose against Logan’s cheek. Logan’s breathing hard, his entire body a tight, taut line, and Scott can  _ feel  _ the rage rolling off him in waves, it’s overpowering. 

 

“Lo,” He whispers, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Lo, let’s go. Let’s go home.” He feels Logan’s hand move from where he’s been holding it, hears the claws slide out with a clean  _ snikt _ . The hand moves away, and then a pained gurgle rips from Creed as the claws begin to slide, slowly, into what can only be his throat. 

 

A racked, feral growl emits from Logan’s chest, and Scott presses his hand against it, right where the dog tags rest on his sternum. 

 

“He touched you.” Logan grits out, and Scott can feel his body shaking with repressed fury, feel how every inch of him wants to let go and shred Creed, rip and tear and bite at his body until there’s nothing left. Logan’s keeping himself in check, remaining as much in control as he can, but the wolverine can smell Victor on Scott, and it’s not happy. “He  _ touched you _ .” 

 

Scott opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Creed laughs, a harsh, cruel sound, and his heart sinks as he realizes; there is no way they’ll leave here without Logan taking a life. 

 

“Tied him down, too. Just like old times.” He rasps, his voice smug and cruel and ugly as his face. “Your boy’s skin’s just as soft as I remembered.” Logan  _ roars,  _ and Scott can’t repress the 

full-body shudder that shoots through him, can’t help himself from gritting his teeth and pressing his face into Logan’s shoulder as he moves, claws singing as they tear through muscle, bone, and brain tissue, back and forth, back and forth for what feels like hours before finally stilling. 

 

The claws recede, and Scott feels rough, warm hands cupping his cheeks, running over his neck, his shoulders and sides, fingers pressing into the divots between his ribs seeking injuries. 

 

“I’m okay.” He rasps, fingertips running up over soft flannel to trace a furrowed brow, the hard  line of Logan’s mouth, the jut of his chin. He thinks he can feel something wet on Logan’s cheeks. “I’m alright, I’m okay.” Suddenly he’s being tugged forward, and Logan’s hand is twining in his hair, and his arm is wrapping desperately around Scott’s waist, pulling him as close and as tight as he can and burying his face in the crook of Scott’s neck. 

 

“I’m sorry.” He all but sobs, his body still shaking, trembling under Scott’s hands, and Scott grips tightly at the back of his neck, presses his cheek against Logan’s hair. “Scott-- _ god _ , Scott,  _ fuck _ .” Logan’s clinging to him, every available inch of their bodies as close together as possible, inhaling his scent in deep, erratic breaths. “If--if--” The choked sound that rips its way out of Logan sends a pang of something like pain through every inch of Scott’s body, and he bites down hard on his bottom lip to keep from breaking down himself. 

 

“It’s okay. It’s alright, I’m okay, I’m here.” Scott pulls Logan’s head back with all the force he can muster, kisses him hard, and fast, and desperate, and Logan’s fingers press even tighter against his cheeks. “Take me home.” He pleads, wanting nothing more than to have his glasses back so he can look at Logan, see him and his face and his body and know for certain that he’s okay, even if logic and the healing factor tell him he doesn’t need to fret. 

 

Logan doesn’t speak, just clenches his jaw, and slips his arm under Scott’s legs, gathers him up against his chest and carries him wordlessly to the stairs. His arms are warm, and so, so tight around Scott, still clinging to him as though Scott were his lifeline, and Scott twines his fingers in the dogtags around Logan’s neck. His hand is shaking, but he presses it down anyway, finding Logan’s heartbeat beneath his closed fist. He breathes in with Logan. He breathes out with Logan, a steadily stabilizing rhythm of footsteps on creaking wood and doors opening one after the other. Their tempos line up like grandfather clocks against the same wall.

 

It’s not until they’ve gotten outside (Scott can feel the cool night air on his cheeks) that realization cuts through him, icy cold. 

 

“Logan.” He rasps, fingers tightening around the chain. “Logan, where’s Remy? Where did he take you from?” Logan tenses against him, his step faltering for a moment, and he inhales deeply, turning his head away from Scott to keep his scent from interfering. Logan’s always had a heightened awareness of Scott’s scent. 

 

“He’s not here.” He rumbles, after a moment, and presses his nose against Scott’s temple. “He took me from work.” 

 

“He didn’t find the house, then.” Scott kisses Logan’s cheek, brings up his free hand to cup the hard line of his jaw. “He’d have mentioned it.” He’s not sure who he’s calming down, himself or Logan, but based on the way Logan incrementally relaxes under his hands, he guesses it’s both. 

 

Logan changes direction abruptly, and tightens his hold on Scott. 

 

“Hold on, baby. We’re runnin’.” Scott nods, presses his face against Logan’s chest. 

 

They run. 

 

\--

 

Scott doesn’t become aware of himself again until he hears the familiar creak of their front porch, the sound of Logan opening the door. He taps once at Logan’s shoulder, and is immediately let down, stepping away from Logan to run his fingertips along familiar spackled walls, until he makes it into the kitchen, and can take his spare sunglasses out of the cabinet above the toaster. Logan follows closely behind him, fingers pressing into the base of his spine, the divot between his shoulders, curling around his hip, anything to keep them in contact. 

 

Blinking slowly, Scott turns around. Logan’s face is wrecked, eyes wide, red, and wild, blood spattered across his cheeks, drying on his closed fists. Scott loves him, desperately. 

 

Logan’s head ticks to the left, and a moment later Scott hears what he hears, the loud, ragged french cursing that’s steadily growing closer to the house. There’s the thump of footsteps on the porch, the sound of the door slamming open, and Remy  _ tears _ into the kitchen, eyes glowing bright red in the semi-darkness, kinetic energy sparking around hands lined with playing cards, every inch of him tensed and ready for battle. He stops short at the door, balks, mouth opening and closing for a few seconds before the light around his hands fades, and the cards fall to the ground with a series of soft taps. 

 

“ _ Merde-- _ ” He rasps, and chokes off, falling forward into Logan’s waiting arms. “Fuck-- _ shit _ , Logan, where--” Remy’s voice is shaking, his shoulders, too, trembling like a leaf where he’s being crushed against Logan’s chest, and Scott feels tears prick at his eyes beneath the ruby lenses. 

 

“Victor.” Logan rumbles, and Remy’s entire body tenses again, energy crackling in the air around him at the mere mention of the man. 

 

“ _ Non _ .” He growls, and rips himself away from Logan, turning to Scott and framing his face desperately between long fingers, thumb brushing over the broken skin on his cheek. “ _ Non,  _ Scott,  _ amoureux _ , where is he--” 

 

“Dead.” Logan says with finality, and Scott wraps his arms tightly around Remy’s waist, and pulls him close, as close as he can. 

 

“You were supposed to be home at three, you were--” Remy cuts off again, and Scott tightens his hold, presses his cheek against Remy’s hair and closes his eyes tight. “You were supposed to be  _ safe. _ ” 

 

“We  _ are _ safe.” Scott whispers, and reaches one hand out toward Logan, waiting patiently until he can move forward, press himself against Remy’s back, wrap thick arms around the two of them. “We’re safe here. We’re safe together.” 

 

There, in the kitchen, cradled tightly against Logan’s chest, he prays he’s telling the truth. 

 

Remy switches to the bedroom next to theirs when Logan finds him asleep at the sink four days later and discovers, after five minutes of what Scott can only refer to as ‘loving bullying’, that Remy has not slept a wink in those four days. 

 

So they move him upstairs and Remy starts sleeping through the night. 

 

Eventually, Scott finds that he does, too. 

 

\--

 

The night Jean appears on their doorstep, Logan's been missing for two months. Remy left a week and a half ago to find him, leaving Scott behind to watch the house in case he came back covered in blood and half-dead like he has so many times before. She comes in, all smiles and hugs and happy to see him, and for a moment, he’s happy, too. It's been years since she disappeared, and he's gotten used to people turning up long after he's thought they were gone, but this is still a surprise. 

They talk for a while, normal things, catching up on the lives they've led without each other. He barely remembers it, after.

 

It's like looking through stained glass. She touched his shoulder, his cheek. He remembers the red glow in her eyes when she kissed him. 

  
He'd pulled away, that first time. He'd recoiled, he'd jerked out of her hands.    


  
_ Jean, no, I can't-- _

  
  
_ Why _ ? She'd been fierce, certain, powerful.  _ You said he's been gone for months. He might never even come back.  _ Her words had stung, and for the first time the dread that Logan wouldn't come home began to claw at his gut.  _ What have you become, Scott? All alone at home, cleaning the house, waiting for your man to come home. You're a housewife. _ She'd kissed him, then, and he hadn't had the strength to push her away, hadn't been able to think through the fog of  _ afraidaloneafraid _ to stop it. 

  
  
When she left, immediately after and without saying goodbye, he wept like a child alone in their bed. Curled in on himself, naked against their sheets, Scott cried for what he'd done, for what he'd lost, for what he'd given away. For how, in spite of never saying 'no', he felt violated. Tricked. Coerced. 

  
  
It doesn't occur to him until a few hours later, when he comes back from the long walk he'd taken following his breakdown to find Logan sitting on the porch, that this may have been a planned event. 

  
  
A thousand thoughts race through his mind, how it smells in their room, not to him, but to Logan, how long Logan's been gone, how convenient that he should come home the night Jean showed up. How their bed must reek of sex and sweat and shame. 

  
  
"Logan--" he starts, but cuts off with a strangled sound when the man in question flinches, a full-body shudder that’s like a fist straight to Scott's chest. 

  
  
The silence hangs heavy between them for a full minute, crushing Scott's lungs, squeezing his ribs, before Logan speaks.    


 

"How was she, Scott?" His voice is low, and soft, his shoulders slumped where he's leaning on his knees, and Scott can smell the whiskey on his breath from where he's standing. He wants to respond, wants to say something, anything, but he /can't/, the guilt is clogging his throat. "Was she good?" The catch in Logan's breath over the last word hurts as much as the words themselves.    
  


"Lo..." He tries again, but trails off, at a complete loss.    
  


"Was she--" Logan catches himself, shakes his head, takes a long swig of whiskey, and then barks out the broken ghost of a laugh and continues. "Was she better than me?"    


  
_ No, nothing, never, no one  _ Scott's brain screams, and he manages to shake his head, manages to grit the words out before Logan can take his silence as confirmation;   


  
"No." His voice is wrecked, he knows, but he doesn't care, can't care about anything but the defeated line of Logan's shoulders, the listless way he holds the bottle. Logan's head snaps up, suddenly alert, awake.   


  
"Then  _ why _ ." Logan hisses, tensed like a wolverine ready for a fight, fingers curling white knuckled around the neck of the bottle.    


  
"I--" Scott stammers, takes an aborted step forward, hands raised of their own volition, frozen where they're reaching for Logan. "I was--scared--she--she told me you weren't coming home, she told me--" he shakes his head as he sees Logan bristle even more. "No, I'm not--it's my fault. Not yours, not hers. But--but that's why."   


  
Logan's silent for a long moment, and then his shoulders slump again, and he crumples even further into himself.    
  


"I always come home." He rasps, one hand coming up to rub over his face. "I thought you knew, I thought--" Breaking off, shoulders beginning to shake, Logan lets out a sound not unlike a sob. "I thought you trusted me, honey." It's like a knife to the chest. It's like ice in his veins. It's the saddest, most painful thing he's ever heard Logan say, and something deep inside him /snaps/.   


  
Scott's body moves before he can think to move it, launching himself at Logan with a force that would’ve knocked any non-adamantium enhanced body over. It serves only to jostle Logan a little as Scott clings to him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, face pressed against his hair, huge, shaking sobs beginning to creep their way up his throat.    
  


"I do." He mananges to whisper, holding Logan as tight as he can, petrified at the thought that this will be his last chance to do so. Logan grunts disbelievingly, doesn't move from Scott's hold but doesn't respond, either. "I do, Lo, I trust you more than anyone. I trust you to come home, I trust you to be here for me, I trust you to keep me safe." He shakes his head, and closes his eyes tightly behind the visor. "I trust you to be faithful, and you should have been able to trust me to do the same, and I fucked that up so bad, I can't--"    
  


Scott breaks off, once again at a loss for words, and Logan lapses back into silence, hands at his sides, shoulders slumped under Scott's embrace. His face is downcast so that Scott can't see his eyes, and Scott takes a chance, slides his fingers down to gently cup the scruffy jaw and rough cheeks and tilt Logan's head up to face him.    
  


Logan's eyes are red-rimmed and lost, like they have been so many nights before, but this time instead of cursing the people who'd hurt him, Scott has to sit with the fact that he's the reason Logan's broken. He strokes his thumb across Logan's cheek, catches a hint of wetness there, and bites his lip.    
  


He knows he can't apologize; Logan doesn't do well with those and they can both plainly see how sorry he is. He can't tell Logan it'll never happen again, not because it isn't true, but because he doubts Logan will believe him, now. The years they've built together have crumbled because of fifteen minutes of Scott's weakness. So he says the only thing he can think to.    
  


"I love you." It comes out strangled and rough, his voice breaking over the 'you', and he tightens his jaw as tears begin to flow freely from behind his visor, squeezing his eyes shut against them, but to no avail. "I--I love you so much, and I can't believe--" he chokes on the words, buries his face in Logan's shoulder one more time. "I can't believe I did this to you."    
  


Logan's hands are tender, but firm, as they gently push Scott away. He waits until Scott's shifted to sit on the porch before he stands, eyes on the ground, expression and posture unreadable. In the fifteen years of their relationship, Scott's never found himself so cut off from what Logan's thinking, has always been able to discern from his physicality if not his words how he feels, and in this moment, when everything hinges on Logan, he's at a loss.    
  


"Lo?" He breathes, sitting straight-backed on the faded wood, every inch of him buzzing with anxiety, dreading when Logan turns away, when Logan walks out of his life, when Logan leaves and never returns and Scott is left alone in the empty shell of their house.    
  


In the moments that follow, however, Logan does none of those things.    
  


Instead, he sighs, heavily, and runs a hand through his greasy (soft, thick, perfect) hair, and stays right where he is, one hand on the back of his head, the other on his hip. He looks at Scott, piercing green eyes boring through ruby lenses.    
  


"If this is gonna happen again, you gotta tell me now." He says, flatly, and Scott feels something deep inside him begin to boil as he grasps what Logan's saying. That Logan would stay. That Logan would still stay if Scott cheated again. That Logan would let this happen over and over if it meant he could have Scott.    
  


Years of training and experience aid his legs as he jumps up from the porch and onto Logan, faith in motion as Logan catches him on instinct, allowing Scott to wrap his arms around his neck, held a few inches from the ground by Logan's grip on his legs and waist. It's bruisingly tight, for both of them, and they're both breathing hard, each clinging to the other with a desperate sort of fervor.    
  


"Never again." Scott hisses through gritted teeth, inhaling deeply the smell of Logan's unwashed hair, relishing in the warm, steady slope of his shoulders. He feels the grief rise in his throat once more, tries to swallow it, but can't, and then he's crying again, shaking in Logan's arms, the only sound the heavy rasp of their breathing.    
  


It's Logan who pulls back and kisses him, hot mouth sealing over his in an act that's as much possession as it is comfort. Scott cradles him, if possible, closer, fingers stroking over the hair at the back of his neck, legs wrapped tightly around his midsection.    
  


"Next time," Logan growls against Scott's lips, "You call me." His right hand is clutching Scott's thigh, his left curled possessively around his side where his arm is braced against Scott's back, and Scott nods, desperately.    
  


"Yes." He whispers, breathes, their air mingling and their foreheads brushing together. "Always."    
  


They stand there for a while, breathing each other in, pressed tight and close, until Logan sighs, and presses his face into Scott's neck.    
  


"Our bed stinks." He mutters, teasingly, and Scott bites down on a smile.    
  


"Better get to the couch, then." He whispers, and Logan hefts him into a more secure hold, and walks up the steps into the house. They part long enough to unfold the futon, and then they're on each other again, pressed close on the dense mattress.    
  


When Logan kisses Scott again, it's with a tenderness that makes Scott's eyes sting again. The rough pads of Logan's fingers curl around his jaw, achingly gentle, thumb caressing over his cheek.    
  


"I love you." Scott whispers, again, wrapping himself around Logan, needing him closer, so much closer, close like close never felt before. Logan's nose nuzzles against the hollow of his cheek, and he captures Scott's lips again, this time hard, claiming.    
  


Scott's touch turns frantic, needing to feel Logan, hands running over his chest, stomach, sides, hips, slipping under his shirt and beneath the waistband of his pants, not so much seductive as needy. His fingertips graze the thick, dark hair above Logan's groin and his reward is a low growl that reverberates into his own chest, the scrape of teeth over his jaw.    


  
Hours ago, his hands were unsteady and reluctant where they'd laid on Jean's waist, her thighs. Fear had coursed through him, his heart jackrabbiting uncontrollably in his chest, face wet with some combination of tears and sweat. Jean had touched him with a clinical hand, had seemed detached from what was happening in a way that made Scott even more anxious, more desperate to please. Scott had fucked her like a broken puppet and felt nothing but sadness.    


  
This time is completely different.    


  
There is no trepidation in the way they touch, in the familiar press of skin against skin. They shed clothes like shreds of paper, discarded and forgotten in the desperate  search for more.    


  
When they're finally, finally naked, not a scrap of space between their bodies, it's like coming home. It's like the first breath of air after a lifetime under water. When Logan's length slides along his cleft, they both groan, the sheer ache of arousal sending shivers through them, and Scott bites down on a curse when Logan rolls away to  rifle through some cluttered drawer for lube.    


  
When he comes back, it's with a vengeful heat that goes straight to Scott's dick, spreading his legs with wide, strong hands, and pressing a slicked finger inside him without preamble. Scott hisses, pain and pleasure mixing comfortably in his gut as his fingers scrabble desperately at Logan's shoulders.    


  
Logan adds another finger and Scotts nails leave deep red lines across his back that heal almost as soon as they're made. Hot lips seal over his throat, sharp teeth digging into the skin there, pressing down bruises that won't disappear, bruises that he'll wear, proudly, for weeks.    


  
"God, Lo, just--" Logan silences him with another hard, punishing kiss, and nips his cheek.    


  
"Not gonna hurt you, honey." He murmurs, and Scott's heart flies into his throat as he hisses, body arching into Logan's as another finger pushes inside him.    


  
"I'm ready, I'm ready,  _ please-- _ " Logan growls, again, and pulls his fingers out only to shift forward immediately, the head of his dick pressing hot and thick against Scott's hole, and Scott  _ keens _ , pulling Logan closer, as close as he can, chests and hips pressed together, arms wrapped iron tight around his neck.    


  
There's a beat, a moment, where they're perfectly still, and Logan's breathing hard into Scott's mouth, and Scotts sliding his fingers into Logan's hair, and they lie there, in stasis, frozen in each other's embrace.    


  
Then Logan moves, slams into Scott with enough force to shake the walls, let alone the couch, and Scott cries out, head thrown back as Logan pounds into him with a singular veracity.   


  
It's perfect. It's powerful. It's  _ home _ .    


  
When Scott comes, he's shaking, every inch of his body trembling, spilling over their stomachs, untouched. Logan follows a few moments later, tensing as he finds his release, nose pressed against Scott's cheek, lips parted. Scott kisses him through it, through the shivers that wrack his body, fingers gentling over the back of his neck, legs wrapped around his waist.    


  
When Logan's shoulders start to shake, Scott pulls back and looks at him, at the downward cast of his eyes, at the tears marring his handsome cheeks, and he loves, he loves, he loves him.    


  
"Honey," he whispers, his own eyes stinging, wiping the wetness from under Logan's with his thumbs. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry." His voice cracks, and Logan shakes his head, and kisses him, breath coming out hitched and unsteady.    
  


"Don't." He grits out, and his tears drip onto Scott's cheeks. "I'm--it's not--" he inhales deeply and kisses Scott again, "I just--love you."    
  


Scott draws himself up to a semi upright position leaning on the pillow back of the couch, and swallowing a gasp as Logan slides out of him. He kisses Logan's forehead, his temple, his hairline, cradling him close against his chest.    
  


"Thank you." He whispers into Logan's cheek, warmth pooling in his chest as Logan's hands shakily come up to grip his back, fingers digging gently into the flesh of his sides. Logan's eyes slide shut, his head pillowed against Scott's shoulder. Scott traces the wrinkles in his brow, his laugh lines, the slope of his nose, with his fingertips.

 

In the uneven lines of Logan’s body, the twisted remains of Logan’s big, beautiful heart, he has found a home. 


End file.
